Reign of Hell by Sven Hassel Page B

were called. The chosen few clawed and tramped their way to the exit. It must have seemed to them like a reprieve. The doors were forced shut behind them, and those inside heard the sudden burst of machine-gun fire.
    And then there was silence, and they knew what it meant when a man’s name was called . . .
    A strange collection of criminals this depleted band of brothers were. Some had been caught listening to foreign radio stations; some had dared to doubt out loud the ultimate victory; some had spoken their minds in a public place. Others had robbed, swindled, and murdered. Still others had been inconveniently committed to an ideal of non-violence. And now, one and all, they were waiting for death in a rat-ridden cellar.
    Ten minutes passed. Once again the doors were thrown open, and another six men were called to face the machine-gun fire. By dawn, it was considerably more comfortable down in the mud of the cellar. There was plenty of room to move and plenty of air to breathe. Men even began feeling human, talking once again, and speculating as to whose turn it would be next time the door opened. One person put forward a theory that it was only those criminals wearing a blue or a red stripe who were being taken away. Instantly all those wearing green stripes heaved sighs of relief.
    ‘Yeah, I get the idea,’ said a murderer from Leipzig. ‘I get the drift. It’s only the politicians and the traitors they’re polishing off. And I reckon that’s as it should be. Why should Adolf go on feeding and clothing them that wants to betray him. Get rid of ’em, I say, and let the rest of us have our fair share.’
    The green stripes began to grow quite complacent as time passed and still none of them had been called out. Prison mentality reasserted itself. They began stealing all they could lay hands on from the weak and the dead. One turned on Parson Fischer, who was still hanging limply on to life, and slapped him across his already bruised and bleeding face.
    ‘Why aren’t you praying, you lousy priest? Why don’t you get Him up There to come down and give us a hand?’
    There was a sour laugh from the far side of the stinking cellar.
    ‘Him up There! Fat lot of good He’d be against the SS . . .’
    Late in the afternoon, the doors opened for the last time and an SS captain addressed them from the threshold.
    ‘All right, listen to me, you load of swine! By rights you should all be dead by now. If I had my way, I’d take you outside and get rid of the whole damn lot of you. It’s the Reichsführer himself who’s decided to give you another chance to prove yourselves worthy of being allowed to go on living. I hope you’re feeling fit and strong, because you’re going to go on a long march to a spot where you won’t be tempted to run away and join the enemy. You’ll know where you’re going when you’ve got there, and not before. You’ll be marching without boots. The Bulgarian Army marches without boots, so why shouldn’t you? Those of you who do arrive safely will be supplied with whatever you need. If anyone falls behind on the way, he’ll be shot. And if there’s anyone who feels he’s not fit enough to march without boots, let him come forward and say so now.’
    There was a tremulous silence, and then a man slowly advanced from the shadows of the cellar. The Captain watched him approach.
    ‘Well? What’s the matter with you?’
    The man limped forward. His right foot was bloody and broken. It told its own tale.
    ‘My, my, that doesn’t look too healthy,’ said the Captain. ‘You should have had that seen to a long time ago.’
    He called up an orderly and motioned him towards the man. The Dirlewanger Brigade had no doctors. All operationswere carried out by the unskilled and fumbling hands of the orderlies, without the benefit of anaesthetics. They reckoned this toughened a man up.
    ‘So what do you think?’ murmured the Captain. ‘Will he be able to march?’
    The orderly dug a probing